


i'm so cold

by funeebuneehat



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Exile, Hurt No Comfort, Insane Wilbur Soot, Memories, Oneshot, Paranoia, War, Wilbur Soot-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29337708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeebuneehat/pseuds/funeebuneehat
Summary: wilbur reminisces on what once was.
Kudos: 16





	i'm so cold

**Author's Note:**

> i just,,, l'manburg <3
> 
> please cut me some slack if i've messed up anywhere! very new to this :]

darkness fell fast, shrouding the land and giving way to the undead that rose in the night. 

it hurt to breathe. frosty grass crunched underneath his feet, hands chilled numb by his side. stuttered breaths escape him in swirls of mist into the winter air.

maybe they  _ were  _ better off without him. they wouldn’t miss him. would they?

ț̷̍̉͐̋̕͝h̵̬̔̽̎͗͌͂͐̓͘͝e̴̬̬͑̉̌̔͌̚y̵̼̩̗͓̥̖͂ ̸̩̭̿̈́̀̚͘ḋ̶̢̪͘̚ö̴̱͙̗̟͜͜n̶̢̛͖̙̲̗̑̃̋̎͘̚͝'̶̯̌̋t̷̨̺̻͎͕͔̫̫̠̜̉̌̒́͋̌̈́.̵̡͚̤̮͒̄͆̄̈́͝

there’s a reason they haven’t been found yet.

their pathetic “home” sat beneath the ground, hidden away from the rest of the world. pogtopia, they called it. fitting, really, how fucking dystopian their story had become.

_ remember me,  _ he had written to niki.  _ tell my story. _

that was if she cared enough to search for the note.

the undead’s groans follow him as he lifts the hatch open, boots thudding onto stone. he’s on solid ground but he sure doesn’t feel very steady. 

all he wanted was a home. somewhere to feel safe for once. 

and he had it! and it slipped from his grasp. 

once upon a time, they were sat around a fire, roasting marshmallows on sticks, laughter carrying their worries away into the night. they told stories of their adventures, reminiscing the early days of their nation.

“l’manburg.” he whispers. it tastes bitter on his tongue now. 

concrete black and yellow walls. tubbo picked the colors, claiming the colors reminded him of bumblebees.

he wonders whether tubbo’s better off with schlatt.

the lake. fundy loved the water, watching the fish stream upwards from the river that led outside fascinated him.

his heart panged when he thought of fundy.

the van. eret spent most of his time in there.

he doesn’t want to think about eret.

the smell of freshly baked bread. niki with her apron, eager to feed their new found family within the walls.

clearly that gesture only extended so far.

the trees. tommy would frequently climb them, hanging off the branches and roping tubbo up with him.

sure, tommy was with him now, but he wasn’t the same, was he?

he feels sick to his stomach.

the flag. wilbur designed it himself. he always did have an eye for vexillography.

bile rises up into his throat when the image of his son burning it down has ingrained itself into his mind.

ẗ̵̨̩̺̞͈̹̲͔́̅̇̈́̍̊́̊̑̕r̷͕̄͒͗̈͑͑ạ̸͓̣̭͕̔̕͜͝ï̴̻̬t̸̮͎͖̝̜̲͔̆̈͋̾͘͘͝ͅo̸̢͍͉̰̝̟̽̀̽̍͌̍̇̕͘͜͠r̷̢̨̘̟̞͋̆̍͐̒͂̔͑͝.̶̧͍̪̄͝

voices drift up from below, echoing throughout the ravine.

“wil-?”

he pushes the hatch back open. 

_ “we’ll write the history books!” tommy proclaimed over the table as they ate, clutching a miniature l’manberg flag a scrap of black fabric on a toothpick.  _

his boots carry him away.

_ the sunset fades over the horizon, casting an orange glow over the van. fundy giggles and points up at the sky, yelling for everyone to come look. _

every step crunches through the snow.

_ niki passes out cookies to eat by the fire. embers dance and spit wildly on the logs, eliciting shrieks from the younger boys as they make it into a game. _

he can’t feel his fingers.

_ tommy gathers heaps of leaves into his arms, just to dump them over tubbo’s head. fundy and tubbo chase down tommy with sticks, all laughter and rosy cheeks. _

it hurts to breathe.

_ gentle strums of a guitar carry across the nation, soft singing to accompany in it. wilbur swears his heart grows a size when he finds tommy playing “ode to l’manburg” on his guitar. _

he chokes on his own sobs.

_ they sit by the lake, fundy wading through the water, flicking water at the adults to distract them out of their conversations. it becomes a war, with fundy on wilbur’s shoulders, niki teaming with tubbo and tommy utilising eret as his human shield. _

w̷̧̰͆̎̊ȁ̷̢̞͇̜͓͕͗̄͆̇͝r̴̯̹͖̝̖͋͝

he finds himself at the top of a hill, overlooking a field. winds sweep up and around him, rustling his clothes. it chills him to the bone.

_ “it’ll be okay, tommy.” _

who can he trust anymore?

_ “we were fucked the minute we were thrown out, tommy.” _

you can’t trust anyone.

_ “everyone who’s claiming to be on our side, they’re lying to us!” _

not when you can’t even trust yourself.

_ “let’s blow that motherfucker to smithereens.” _

he isn’t paranoid.

_ “tommy, are we the bad guys?” _

it isn’t paranoia when it’s the truth.

_ “i’m gonna be a different man than the one schlatt crossed, tommy.” _

right?

_ “”independence, or death.” _

red-hot tears slip down his face, each one carving furrows on the tender flesh. 

_ “revolution is forever.” _

his breathing’s ragged, gasping, struggling breaths that are painful to heave in. 

“ _ we would rather die than give in to you.” _

he sinks to his knees, feeling rocks dig into his knees. not caring.

_ “i miss phil. i wonder if he’d be proud of me.” _

his shoulders shake with his sobs, and he cries until no more tears come. 

until only the emptiness and grief remained.

emptiness.

i̸̢̖̻̩̬̩̣͍͎͗͌̈̀̃̽͜͝m̵̰͈̭͔̦͉͆̏̊̀̌̐̿͝ ̶͚̻͇̣̹̟̝̈́ͅs̷͕̥̜͋̋̒̅̚̕͝͝o̷͖̯̼͋͗͗̓̐̚͝ ̸̢̢̛̹̣̱͎͈͌͑́̓̀͆̔̕͜c̸̨̬͈̖͓̠̿̔ǫ̵̭̙̍̿̋͐͘l̵̲̩͖͛̇́͐̋͌̌̅ḋ̶̰̜̘͚̜̟̲̣̳͋́̀̎̏͗͜͝.̸̧̥̟͚̭̼́̊͛̊̄̒

  
  



End file.
